Epitaph
by laureleaf
Summary: Who comforts the one who carves your tomb? How much does it cost them to proclaim your death? How much of themselves do they bury with you? Balin POV after the Battle of Five Armies.


A/N: I'm warning you now: multiple major character deaths. This story does not have a happy ending. Blame Tolkien (I do). Quotes you recognize aren't mine.

* * *

Balin looked at the smooth rock and picked up his chisel. Bofur had found the stone in the quarry stockroom. Bifur had smoothed away the rough-hewn edges. Ori had added the all the artistic details and patterns as befitting one of the royal family. It was Balin's job to carve the final inscription, the final record of a noble but all-too-short life. When he had traced out the letters, he had forced himself to look at them as just that: letters. Unattached. Without meaning. It was more difficult once he put chisel to stone. For the first few words he could find refuge in the familiarity of his task. How many graves had he marked in his life? More than he could count. Balin could carve these letters in his sleep.

 _Here lies_

His hands had not wavered when he took over his dead master's work so many years ago, commemorating those who would be forever lost in a mountain that was no longer theirs.

 _Here lies Riian, Daughter of Milan, Wife of Thrain, Princess Under the Mountain_

His hands had not trembled when he labeled the last resting place of the plague-stricken wanderers of Ered Luin.

 _Here lies Murdina, Daughter of Kudo, Wife of Fundin_

His hands had not shaken when he wrote out thousands of names throughout their war of vengeance, and thousands more after Azanulbizar.

 _Here lies Thror, Son of Dain II, King Under the Mountain_

 _Here lies Fundin, Son of Farin, Chief Advisor to Thror_

 _Here lies Frerin, Son of Thrain, Prince of Exiled Erebor_

His hands had not hesitated when he spelled out the names of the honored dead, slain by goblins for protecting their new homeland.

 _Here lies Lodin, Son of Lindon, Husband of Dis, Warrior of the Blue Mountains_

How many times had he written the words "Here lies" on the stone from which they all had been hewn? Too many. Far too many times. Balin was adding three more names to that list today. Despite all of his experience, his hands still trembled with grief.

 _Here lies Thorin, Son of Thrain, King Under the Mountain_

Balin's friend and sovereign lay still in his all-but-finished tomb, the thrice-accursed Arkenstone upon his breast. He fervently hoped Thorin had finally found peace in death. There had been little enough of it in his life. The funeral would be grand, of course. Balin had been planning it for months already: as soon as they had left the peace of the Shire. Planning kept his mind from fixating on the horrific hole Thorin's loss would leave in his life. Even while he considered how much pageantry would be realistic in a ruined kingdom and what rituals would be appropriate for a crownless king, Balin had hoped his worst fears would not be realized. Those hopes had been dashed as soon has he had seen the inevitable staring at him with dragon-sick eyes. He wept, but it was Thorin's time. He had not been the best of kings, but he had tried. By Mahal's beard, he had _tried_.

 _Here lies Fili, Son of Dis, Brother of Kili, Prince of Erebor Reclaimed_

Balin looked at the name on the stone beneath his hands, a stunning piece of pale gold onyx streaked with red, and suppressed a sob. It had not been this one's time. Fili should have lived to rule Erebor restored. He should have buried Balin, not the other way around. His chisel quivered over the first letter. Balin breathed deep, the tears beginning to soak through his beard. He could do this. It was just three lines, after all.

* * *

" _Three lines, Fili, see? One like a tall tree, and two like a crooked arm. 'F'. 'F' for Fili!" Balin coaxed, guiding the small fingers across the paper. The golden boy's bright blue eyes crossed in concentration, a bit of tongue peeping out as he tried to mimic the perfectly straight lines of his mentor._

* * *

Balin had taught the prince these letters. He had never imagined that he would have to write them on Fili's grave. He shakily laid his tools down on the unfinished surface, finally losing his battle for his composure. Fili had been like a grandson to him, a ray of sunshine in a mourning world. A hope for a brighter future for an aging dwarf who had seen far too much death and destruction. He heard someone enter the room. Dwalin, judging by the cadence of his heavy steps and the soft clank of his weapons. Balin's tears renewed their vigor. _Brother_. An unusual title to put on an epitaph. But he couldn't imagine _not_ putting it there.

"It is right," Dwalin rumbled, reading his thoughts. "They should not be parted, even in this."

"They should not have parted at all," Balin spat bitterly. "Thorin with his damnable pride and…"

"What is done is done," Dwalin interrupted. Balin knew he was right. His brother's logic had always been simple, but sharp and inescapable, much like his twin axes.

"We could not save them. But we can honor their sacrifice by making sure that their legacy is remembered until the mountain crumbles at the end of all things." Dwalin pressed Balin's tools back into his hands.

 _Here lies Kili, Son of Dis, Brother of Fili, Prince of Erebor Reclaimed_

Balin stared at the chalked lines, his eyes dry. He had no more tears to shed. He grit his jaw against the pain in his heart. He had already carved these words once. Just in a slightly different order. It should not be this hard to write them again, but it was.

* * *

" _For Mahal's sake, lad, be careful!" Balin shouted at the little dwarflings in the tree above him. The little scamps just laughed, clambering even higher._

" _Look at us Balin! We can touch the sky!" Kili cheered, waving his arms while clinging to the swaying branch with his knees. Beside him, Fili laughed. It had probably been his idea to climb up there to start with._

 _Balin opened his mouth to reprimand them when he felt it: a deep groaning like a tunnel before it collapsed. The branch Kili was sitting on snapped, sending him tumbling towards the ground. Fili screamed as his brother slipped through his grasp. Balin threw himself forward, barely managing to break the prince's fall with his body. They lay on the ground, shocked and breathless. Moments later, Fili scrambled to their side, his palms shredded by the rapidity of his decent._

" _Next time lads, you keep your feet on the stone and your mind on your letters," Balin growled. The princes looked chastised. They were supposed to be inside studying, not outside trying to give him a heart attack! "Fili, you know better. And Kili, you shouldn't follow your brother into trouble!"_

 _Neither lad would meet him in the eye. Balin didn't know why he bothered. Kili would go where Fili went, no matter how dangerous or stupid._

* * *

Sometimes Balin hated being right. Insensitive dwarves had called Kili the 'spare'. And it was true: if catastrophe happened, and both Thorin and Fili died, Kili would become the King Under the Mountain. But Kili had never desired a throne, and frankly he would have been ill-suited to it. Kili had only ever desired to stand by his brother's side, wherever that may be. And so he had: in life and in death. Balin put his chisel to the piece of lapis lazuli and willed himself to begin. It was a rich Durin blue, like a summer's day. The stone was streaked through with black bands as dark as Kili's hair, with flecks of gold dappling it like stars. Balin knew why he hesitated. Part of him still expected, even now, to see Kili hurtling around the corner after miraculously escaping yet another misadventure, Fili laughing at his heels. He could imagine it as long as he didn't write the fatal words.

Balin told himself again that they were dead. _They were both dead_. Their bodies lay in state next to Thorin just a few rooms away. He knew he had to finish his work so that their funerals could continue as planned in a few hours. Tomorrow he would crown Dain King Under the Mountain. Balin _knew_ this.

It felt like he was carving the deep runes into his own flesh as he struck his hammer against his chisel again and again and again… gouges on his heart, in his soul. They condemned and punished him with every stroke.

Balin paused in his self-flagellation at the last word. _Reclaimed_. Yes, they had accomplished the impossible: defeated a dragon, gained back their homeland, and made peace with their enemies. But at a terrible price. And what did it matter, now? The three dwarves who were at the very heart of the quest lay dead, their throne claimed by a distant relative with few ties to this mountain. Dis would be heartbroken, her entire family now dead by premature violence. What joy or comfort could be found in a luxurious mountain palace when all that you loved was buried beneath it?

* * *

 _"You don't have to do this," he told Thorin. "You have a choice. You've done honorably by our people. You have built a new life for us in the Blue Mountains, a life of peace, and plenty. A life that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor."_

* * *

Balin had been right, and he had known it, but he had supported his king on this foolish quest despite how he knew it would end. In a way, he was just as guilty of their deaths as Thorin. His blind loyalty had been their betrayal.

The weary dwarf brushed aside the last of the dust and stone chips from the polished surfaces of the three finished tombs, but his tears remained pooled in the deep furrows of their epitaphs.

"I'm so sorry, lads. Sorry for everything."

 _Here lies Balin, Son of Fundin, Counselor to the King Under the Mountain, Tutor of Princes, Breaker of the Line of Durin_

* * *

A/N: All names are cannon accurate when possible. The dwarven genealogies we have are incredibly spotty (especially considering how detailed the hobbit genealogies are) and do not include any females besides Dis. Hopefully the titles I used make it clear who I'm referring to.

The format for the epitaphs is taken from Balin's tomb in Moria. Hopefully the format for the rest of the story makes sense.

You could make the argument that Ori, as scribe, would write the epitaphs, but I feel that since Balin is so much closer to the royal family and is the de-facto head of the Company after their deaths, he should have the honor.


End file.
